Before You're Lost
by mktoddsparky
Summary: /But people grow up, apparently. Instead of a six year old Sam with sandy hair and a hopeful expression, there's a man whose head is filled with nightmares that Dean can't help chase away no matter how much he might want to./ Dean comes to various understandings regarding Sam, Cas and Benny. Post 8x10. Dean-centric.


_Before You're Lost_

**..**

**a/n**: This is the first time I've been able to write in awhile and I'm actually proud of what I've written. This is set after 8x10, cleaning up some of the mistakes that shouldn't have been made in the episode. Hope you enjoy (:

**..**

_I can usually drink you right off of my mind,_

_but I miss you tonight. _

_I can normally push you right out of my heart,_

_but I'm too tired to fight. _

_Yeah, the whole thing begins,_

_and I let you sink into my veins,_

_and I feel the pain like it's new._

_Everything that we were,_

_everything that you said,_

_everything that I did,_

_and that I couldn't do,_

_plays through tonight._

**-** _Come Wake Me Up; Rascal Flatts_

**..**

Dean's eyes flicker as he stares as the pinpricks of light spilling through a crack under the door in their room. His eyelids - heavy with sleep - hover, balancing delicately. The persistent voice in Dean's head tells him that they have to be heading out tomorrow, early, and he should close his damn eyes so he can sleep already. Just as he's obliging said voice, he catches a glimpse of Sam bundled into a ball under his covers, his face smooth. A whisper of sadness steals through Dean. In moments such as these, it's easy to imagine that Sam is a kid again, stealing the last serving of cereal and offering him the toy that came with it. Hell, things were definitely easier then, much simpler.

But people grow up, apparently. Instead of a six year old Sam with sandy hair and a hopeful expression, there's a man with permanent crevices under his eyes and a head filled with nightmares that Dean can't help chase away no matter how much he might want to. Mostly because Sam won't _let_ him.

Dean isn't stupid - contrary to popular belief. Sam's a big boy and he is capable of taking care of himself. Maybe it is just Dean who can't let go of the fierce desire to protect his little brother and take as much of his burden as possible. Only it isn't. Sam may insist that he doesn't need Dean, that he's stronger than Dean will ever be again, thanks to his time in hell; yet, when something goes wrong, Sam hurries back to Dean's side and expects his big brother to take care of everything yet again. And, damn him, Dean can't refuse. It's codependency at its most dangerous.

Sighing, Dean turns until he's flat on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, tracing the angelic warding sigils. They should've taken them down after their conversation earlier about Castiel's disturbing behavior, but Sam had insisted that it would be better to leave them. Honestly, if Dean were to turn back the clock, he would have shoved a skin magazine in his brother's bitch-face and taken down the sigils. So what if Crowley's prowling around looking for the damn angel tablet? They'd be safer taking the sigils down and getting Cas over here.

_Damn it, Sam_. _Why'd I have to let you get away with your damn puppy dog eyes?_ Dean runs a hand down his face, groaning as the gears in his brain begin to stir. He can't really be mad at Sam, though. True, the guy's been acting like a douche lately, but Dean isn't exactly squeaky clean himself. If anything, Dean can only blame himself for this. He'd been so preoccupied trying to repair things between him and Sam that he hadn't actually considered what he was agreeing to. _Stupid mistake_. Dean wasn't wrong to try and work things out with Sam - it always comes back to their baggage in the end - but there's more going on then their issues and he has to consider every factor.

Any chance at sleep shot, Dean slides out from under his covers. He shivers as the cold air creeps through his navy pajama bottoms but brushes it off as he heads for the mini-fridge. Grabbing a beer, he pulls off the top and takes a sip. As he waits for the warmth to hit him and chase away the nauseated feeling all of this thinking is causing, Dean reaches for his coat and pulls out the pocket knife he always keeps with him. It's smaller than he usually prefers, but Dean can't always go around carrying machetes; besides, his dad had gotten Dean this knife for his twelfth birthday and he isn't about to give it up now.

Flipping open the blade, Dean stares at it for a moment, considering. Then he heads over to the wall by the mini-fridge, groaning as he realizes just how enormous his task is going to be. They might have gone a little overboard with the sigils, mainly to keep Cas from hearing their thoughts regarding his recent behavior.

The job's a bitch. Some of the sigils are in easy to reach places, but the majority are scrawled onto the planks overhead. It takes a chair and an assortment of books and junk to get Dean high enough to reach the ceiling. From there, Dean fits the knife in his mouth - the cold steel pressing into the inside of his cheek - and shimmies onto the rafters. Twisting up and around, Dean straddles the main beam and begins to work.

Thirty minutes later, his arm is burning and sweat is shining on his skin. Wiping his brow, Dean leans back on the beam and runs his eyes around the room, nodding in satisfaction when he can't find a single unbroken sigil.

"Cas?" Dean whispers. He waits a few moments, the silence nearly unbearable. "Uh, Cas, are you there?"

The dark-haired angel doesn't appear and Dean tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. It isn't like Cas to stay away, not unless he's pissed with one of them or in some kind of danger, or - no. Dean shuts that thought down, burying the images of Cas sucking in all of those souls and reigning as God even as the souls eagerly ate away at his vessel. He makes his way slowly down to the floor, nearly falling several times and scrambling for purchase on the beam, before finally getting down. Miraculously, Sam is still sleeping, his soft snores carrying through the room.

Slipping on his shoes and pulling on the faded leather jacket that still somehow smells like his father, Dean heads outside. He almost runs straight into Cas after locking the door behind him. "Damn it," he hisses, though he isn't really mad. He's too relieved to see the angel.

Dean reaches out to pat Castiel's shoulder, squeezing it briefly before pulling back. "You really gotta work on your entrances."

"I apologize." Cas doesn't meet Dean's eyes. Instead, he crosses the porch and takes the steps down, heading for the wrought iron bench several feet away. Dean follows him, tracing the edge of his friend's tense shoulders with worry. Cas hasn't acted this stiff in awhile. Sure, he doesn't have the best people skills, but Castiel has come a long way since his first entrance in the barn after breaking Dean out of hell.

"Did you need something?" Castiel asks as he sinks gracefully down onto the bench.

Dean takes a seat beside the angel, their knees and shoulders barely brushing. Castiel's skin feels warm underneath his clothing and Dean is grateful for the bit of warmth. It's chilly out.

"I wanted to see you," Dean says without thinking.

Something flashes in Castiel's eyes but it disappears just as quickly.

"You saw me earlier, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I was a little distracted trying to break down the door to get you to Samandriel," Dean says with a little roll of his eyes. He nudges Castiel's shoulder to let him know that he isn't irritated.

"Thank you for getting me to him," Castiel says softly, still staring determinedly down at the ground. Concern knaws at Dean's gut. "I know that your unorthodox method must have felt anything but pleasant."

Dean shrugs, the movement brushing their shoulders together again, and ducks his head to try and hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. "It's nothing. I mean, you were weren't doing well and I knew you needed to get to Samandriel, so..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "Not that it did much good," he adds darkly. "He still died."

Castiel's face stills completely and Dean's pretty sure that the angel has stopped breathing. Not that Castiel needs oxygen to begin with, but he's around humans enough that his lack of breathing might cause alarm and therefore has trained himself to breathe automatically.

"It was by my hand," Castiel breathes. "Not by any inadequacy on your part."

"If we had gotten to Crowley sooner then we could have prevented it," Dean argues, shaking his head. "What did he say, Cas? What was so bad that he had to die?"

Castiel flinches as though Dean has shot him.

"Dean," he begins in a cautious tone.

"Look," Dean cuts him off, "I know you have all of your angel secrets and it really isn't my business to pry or anything. But I just -" He exhales in frustration, trying to find the words. "I just want to understand, Cas. I get the whole Lucifer falling thing, but why kill an angel because he was _tortured_ and forced to reveal secrets?" During his bumbling monologue, he has somehow grabbed one of Castiel's hands in between both of his and is shaking it lightly. Immediately Dean snakes his hands away, heat flashing through him. "It just doesn't seem right."

Castiel finally meets Dean's eyes and the depths of pain in the angel's eyes stuns Dean for a moment. "Your definition of rightness is limited by human experience," Castiel replies coldly, eyes boring straight into what feels like Dean's soul. "In Heaven, we live by a system of justice. Either you are loyal to the cause or you are not."

"If you still believe in that bullshit then you'd have killed yourself by now," Dean responds sharply. "I thought you were all about free will now. What happened to that, huh?" He leans forward, trying to get Castiel to look at him. It works, just as it always does, and Dean is overwhelmed again by the apparent sadness in Castiel's blue eyes.

"I still might," Castiel growls, and this time it is Dean who stops breathing. "I know you think about our conversation in the motel room just as much as I do, Dean."

"Are you spying on my dreams again?" Dean mutters through the haze in his mind. He's too busy trying to wrap his head around the idea of his best friend - although the word doesn't describe what's between them, not even remotely - actually wanting to end his life. He can't even fathom it. It makes Dean's head hurt and his eyes smart. He takes a deep breath and pushes it away as he did that day in the motel room, trying to focus back on the present.

"No," Castiel says. "I just know you."

Dean sucks in a breath, still reeling over a twisted image of finding Cas on the floor with a seared imprint of wings on either side of him.

"Dude," he manages, "you can't say stuff like that."

Castiel cocks his head in a familiar, endearing manner. "Why not?"

"Because, I-" What is Dean supposed to say to that? _Every time you say stuff like that you make it even harder to keep myself from ravishing you. _No, he needs to deal with that issue on his own, even as his brain decides that isn't so much an issue as Dean's underlying fear that he is beyond pitiful in comparison to Cas. That, and defiling a very _male_ angel of the Lord is beyond terrifying, not to mention immoral, and would probably put him on the hit-list of every angel out there.

"Because humans just don't talk that way," Dean stutters finally, trying to avoid Castiel's piercing gaze.

"But I'm not human."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean mumbles, running a hand along his jaw that could desperately use a shave. "Now quit changing the subject."

Castiel just stares at him for a long while. His eyes don't move from Dean's and it is as if he's trying to chain himself to something irrefutably solid, like he'll float away and lose himself if he doesn't.

"I did not mean to worry you," the angel says at last.

Dean grunts. "Bang-up job on that. Really."

"Don't be melodramatic," Castiel says, frowning at Dean.

Dean straightens, giving Cas an incredulous look. "I'm the one who's being melodramatic? Take the needle out of your own eye first, man."

"It's a log," Castiel corrects.

"What?"

"The proverb," Castiel clarifies, smiling faintly. "You meant that I should take the log out of my own eye before finding the speck in yours."

Dean exhales slowly, leaning back and feeling the drag of Castiel's trenchcoat against his shoulder.

"Whatever, Cas," he gives in at last, staring up at the sky and blaming smog for the fact that he can't see any stars despite the fact that they're up in the hills. Dean's stomach gives a funny quiver when, instead of taking off like he'd expected him to, Castiel copies his movement, leaning back until their sides are practically flush.

Castiel echoes Dean's resigned sigh as he turns his head to look at the hunter. Dean sees something give way in Castiel's eyes and the blue begins swimming with emotion. He can read most of it: regret, pain, despair, a faint hope Castiel's trying not to encourage. Dean offers the angel a truce in the form of a smile and something warms between them.

"I wish I could tell you everything," Castiel says suddenly, and Dean's eyes flicker up from his friend's mouth to find Castiel's eyes again. "But I don't...Dean, I can't remember."

Dean's eyebrows draw together. "What do you mean? Is this about the blood coming out of your eye? Because I was thinking something along the line of evil demon experiments or -"

"Dean," Castiel says sharply, cutting the hunter off. "It isn't demon experiments."

Dean feels his expression droop. He'd been hoping that the reason behind Castiel's weird behavior would be demons, because at least he can take care of that problem. Now, dreaded uncertainty filters into his thoughts again. "What is it then?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "When you were trying to break down the door, I kept having these odd flashbacks about a woman I've never seen before in my entire existence. We were in this room similar to those I've seen in Heaven and she-" he cuts off and a shudder ripples through him. Dean reaches for Castiel's shoulder again and squeezes, offering the only comfort he can think of right now. "Dean, she was drilling into my head, and I - she was telling me to - _no_. I can't remember it, no matter how hard I try."

Dean watches in alarm as Castiel squeezes the side of his head similar to how he had been earlier, his nails digging in. His first thought is that he'd been right, that Cas hasn't been behaving normally, and relief hits him. It's followed quickly by blinding rage at the thought of this unknown woman drilling into Castiel's head and treating him as little more than a puppet. Dean combats the urge to find this woman and tear into her by focusing on Cas. He wraps his arm fully around the angel and tugs him a little closer until Castiel is leaning on Dean. The angel is quivering slightly and as Dean holds him close, he feels his own fear spike.

"Do you have any idea who she might be?" Dean asks quietly, not wanting to push Cas but knowing that he has to. If they want to solve this, he has to.

Castiel exhales slowly, his breath warm against Dean's cheek. "She looked like an angel," he says in an weary voice. "But Dean, I have existed since the beginning of time. I would have recognized her immediately." Another shudder courses through him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be - this isn't how-"

Dean lets Cas pull away, although he couldn't have stopped him if Cas had really tried, watching as the angel rises to his feet and begins to pace back and forth.

"This isn't how I ought to be behaving," Castiel finishes, looking down at Dean with hooded eyes.

"Dude, you can behave however the hell you want to," Dean says, straightening and lifting one of his hands up in front of him. "The whole idea of free will is, well, free will." His hand moves, punctuating every word.

"How insightful," Castiel comments wryly, but he has a small smile on his face. It vanishes again just as fast. "Dean, this isn't just about my opinions. Whatever this woman has done to me...I might not even have control over my body anymore. I'm almost positive that she made me kill Samandriel." Castiel stops pacing and faces Dean head on, his lips twitching. "If she's got control over my body, that means she has control over my mind. This might not even be me talking to you." He leans toward Dean a little, his body rigid and his eyes flaming once more. "How the hell am I even supposed to know what's real anymore?"

"Damn it, Cas," Dean mutters as he rises. Placing one hand on Castiel's shoulder and digging his fingers in when Cas attempts to throw his hand off, he says slowly, "Listen to me, okay? Quit stewing over this and listen to me."

Castiel stops trying to remove Dean's hand and his body stills, a wooden plank held upright only by sheer force of will.

"Good," Dean says, and pauses as he tries to think of what to say next. He'd just kind of jumped up the moment Cas went kamikaze. Then he gets it. Exhaling slowly and telling himself to grow a pair, Dean stares deep into Castiel's eyes and moves his other hand up until he's grasping both of the angel's shoulders. He embraces the rush of heat that rises to embrace him, the same heat that makes up this intense, indescribable bond between them, the heat he's always pushing away and trying to ignore, and says, "Cas, I know you. And if you try to go off the deep end, I'll pull you right back into line. After all, what's the use of this whole profound bond thing if we're not gonna save each other from time to time?" He keeps his tone casual, but Dean knows the meaning behind them isn't, not to either of them.

Cas doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and Dean knows that he is processing the words. He tries to wait, keeping his hands steady on Castiel's shoulders, but his patience quickly runs out. "Uh, Cas, you still in there?"

"Yes, Dean," Cas says so quietly that Dean barely hears it.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Dean presses, knowing that he sounds beyond stupid. If it brings some measure of peace to Cas, though, then he can deal with it.

Castiel's eyes warm with something ancient, sad and hopeful all at once. "I understand, Dean," he says in his deep, gravelly voice, and Dean feels a shiver rush through his toes, up his legs and throughout the rest of his body. He releases Castiel's shoulders, unable to deal with much more of this emotional stuff.

"Awesome," Dean says. He hesitates, remembering his little adventure earlier. "Hey, uh, Cas? If you wanted to stay with us tonight, I, um, took down the sigils. But, you know, I know you're busy, so." He takes a step toward the little cabin, waiting for the polite decline and the empty space left in the spot Castiel is standing.

"I would...like that very much," Cas says as though he's discovering the words for the first time.

The words _"it's okay"_ are already on the tip of his tongue before Dean realizes that Cas is actually agreeing to stay. A smile overtakes him before he can stop it. "Alright then. Pull the stick out of your ass and c'mon." He gestures with his head toward the door and heads that direction without waiting for Cas, a slight spring in his step. "I'll even let you take the bed."

"You know I don't need to sleep," Castiel says as he follows after the hunter.

"Yeah, I know," Dean answers with a little roll of his eyes, focused on trying to keep his hand steady so he can fit the damn key in the lock. The cold is getting to him; he can barely feel his hands anymore. "Angel of the Lord and all that invincibility crap. It's called being _nice_, Cas."

"Your lack of reverence never ceases to surprise me," Castiel says, following Dean into the room. "But thank you for your hospitality, nonetheless."

Dean snorts in response, eyes running habitually over Sam's face to make sure that everything's okay. The moment he realizes what he is doing, Dean's shoulders slump. He turns away and heads toward the other side of the cabin where the kitchen is, outfitted with a table and four unbalanced chairs.

"What is it?" Cas asks.

Dean opens the door to the mini-fridge and ruffles through the various six-packs until he finds what he is looking for. Castiel has never much enjoyed the darker beers - much to Dean's disappointment - and so, whenever he feels like it, Dean will pick up a few bottles of Bud Light for the angel. He tries not to do it often though, because Cas is never around long these days and the beer usually ends up sitting in the Impala, gathering dust.

Grabbing a beer for himself, Dean shuts the door and heads over to the table, handing Castiel his drink. Cas stares at the labeling on the bottle as though memorizing the contents - knowing him, he probably is - before giving Dean a grateful smile. Dean feels his insides warm and quickly distracts himself with his own drink.

After a few moments of silence, Castiel says, "Something is bothering you."

Dean gives the angel one of his _'seriously?'_ looks. "Everything is bothering me these days," he says, taking a sip of his beer. When Cas continues to stare at him expectantly, Dean sighs. "Look, man, it's nothing really. Just trying to figure out where Sam and I stand."

"That isn't nothing," Castiel replies instantly.

Dean's smile feels tight this time. "Yeah," he admits, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "I guess I just want to see Sam as this little kid that I can take care of like I used to, but he's not. It's - he doesn't need me as much as I need him, Cas." Dean finds himself blinking back tears and he turns his head away, trying to hide them from Cas.

"There isn't any shame in crying," Castiel says. Well then.

Dean sinks back into his original position, facing his angel defiantly with hollow eyes circled in red. "Maybe not to you," he responds owlishly, knowing that he's behaving immaturely but unable to stop himself. "Some of us aren't so lucky."

"It wasn't okay to your father," Castiel figures out, and every nerve ending in Dean's body goes on red alert.

"I don't want to talk about him," Dean warns. He tilts back the bottle harder than necessary and several drops hit his jaw, rolling down his chin. "This isn't about him."

Castiel nods, and then asks in a bemused little voice, "This is about Sam?" His blatant confusion screams _fake_ and Dean's pretty sure that the angel is just humoring him.

"Don't act obtuse," he chastises Cas, propping his feet up on the table. Immediately, one of Castiel's hands swipes forward and knocks Dean's feet back onto the floor.

"Don't put your feet on the table," Cas counters when Dean gives him a dark glare. "You know Sam wouldn't like it."

"Low blow."

"What?" Castiel feigns innocence, taking another tiny sip of his Bud Light and trying to hide his grimace. Dean knows that the angel doesn't like alcohol, but he likes feeling included, and if that means drinking a few beers then that is exactly what Castiel will do. All Dean has to do is pretend not to notice.

"You know what: bringing Sam into this."

"Like I said," Castiel murmers over the rim of his beer. His dark eyelashes brush the undersides of his eyes as he blinks, revealing blue irises threaded with gold. "I know you."

Dean forces his face to remain expressionless while he stares at Castiel. Inside, he's a jumbled mess. Castiel's deep voice is doing nothing but furthering the problem. _Friggin' angels_.

"Uh, guys?"

Dean tenses, relaxing only by a fraction when he realizes that it's only Sam. "Sorry, Sammy," he apologizes, his eyes never leaving Castiel. "I didn't think we were that loud."

"S'okay," Sam slurs. Dean finally manages to tear his eyes away from Castiel's face and turns to look at his brother. Sam is still burrowed under the covers; his hair is blanketing the pillow and his eyes are little more than beady slits. "When did Cas get here?"

"Not long ago," Castiel answers. "I apologize for waking you."

"Don't worry bout it. Always good to see you." Sam sounds barely conscious, his words stringing together into barely coherent sentences. "But how'd y'get in? We...sig..."

"I took them down," Dean says, head tilting as he watches Sam resituate himself so that he's lying on his stomach. "Go back to sleep, Sammy. We've gotta get out of here early tomorrow. Remember that case I was telling you about?" He'd actually shared more details about the case with Cas, barely mentioning it to his brother, but that's beside the point.

Sam nods into the pillow. Within seconds, his snores fill the room again, a familiar sound that Dean has come to associate with safety. Sam can wake up just as quickly as Dean can and if he's snoring, that means everything's okay. _Awesome, I'm obsessed with my brother's snores. That isn't creepy at all._

After watching Sam for a few minutes, Dean returns his attention to Castiel. The angel is slumped down in his chair, perfect posture long forgotten, and he's watching the brothers affectionately. Despite being caught in the act, Castiel's expression doesn't change. He simply shifts his attention solely to Dean.

"Did you want to take the bed?" Dean offers, treading softly over to the corner in which his laptop and John's journal are stored. When Castiel doesn't respond, Dean casts a glance over his right shoulder and nearly topples over. "Seriously, man, stop that," he tells the angel standing less than a foot away from him.

"Are you going to rest?" Castiel asks him.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, too wired. I'll just get some research done for this new case. Sam's always doing the grunt work, so if I'm not gonna sleep, I might as well give the kid a break."

Castiel gives Dean a curious look, one Dean has rarely seen on his friend's face. It's followed by a frown and with it goes Dean's mood.

"What?" Dean asks warily, wondering what he's done wrong now.

"Nothing," Castiel murmers, taking Dean's empty bottle from the hunter's hand and bringing it over to the counter. "The depths of your heart just amaze me on occasion."

Dean can only watch in stunned disbelief as Castiel opens the mini-fridge and grabs another beer. "Uh, thanks," Dean says awkwardly when Castiel hands him the beer. Unsure of what else to say, Dean plays with the bottle in his hands for a moment before mumbling, "So, um, yeah. The bed's open if you want it."

Sinking down onto the floor and resting his back against the wall, Dean begins to prepare a semi-circle in front of him of news clippings and other stuff possibly related to the case. Castiel stands in front of him for a moment longer and then, with a huff, seats himself right beside the hunter. Dean's brain tries to short-circuit again when he feels Castiel's shoulder pressed against his. He doesn't comment on his friend's sudden need to be tactile, nor that some part of Dean welcomes it. Rather, Dean opens his beer and takes a sip. He sets the bottle down far enough away so that he won't accidentally knock it and ruin all of the research and then, once he's sure everything is ready, he gives Cas his attention.

"I'm assuming you want to help then," Dean says gruffly.

Castiel's shoulder nudges his lightly, softly enough that it could have been an accident. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be," Castiel admits, "but I'll do what I can."

Dean takes a minute to study Castiel's face. Then he shrugs, props his laptop up on his legs and says, "Your funeral."

"I'm immortal, Dean."

Chuckles fill the small kitchen.

**..**

Dean manages to stay awake until four, at which time his eyelids feel like bricks. His eyes close. Apparently they don't open again for awhile, because when Dean finally forces his eyelids up, fleeing from the confines of his nightmare, his face is pressed into the side of Castiel's neck and the small clock on the top of the dresser reads six-thirty. Dean breathes in shakily, inhaling the angel's familiar scent - a fragrance he doesn't have the words to name. _Safe_, he tells himself, trying to brush away the memories of Alastair's leering expression, of screaming and being gutted over and over as the fires rage around him. _Cas. Safe_.

"Alastair," he whispers simply. Arms tighten around him and Cas hums sympathetically. They've never had to use many words and that's probably a good thing, because Dean fails at expressing himself when it actually matters.

Slowly the world comes into focus. Dean groans as he realizes that he should really be getting up. They have to pack their few belongings and cover the sigils just in case anyone finds their way to the cabin. Originally he'd wanted to get out of here by seven, but that's obviously not going to happen.

"Gotta get everything ready," he mumbles into Castiel's neck.

Cas presses his head against Dean's and it's so warm and safe that Dean doesn't have the heart to move.

"I'll take care of things," Cas says, his voice rumbling low in his throat. "Get some more sleep."

The tiny rational part of Dean's brain says that he ought to be feeling freaked out by this situation, because Dean Winchester does not cuddle and especially not with guys. But those protests are quickly washed away as something that feels like lips presses against the top of his forehead, fleeting.

**..**

"I still think we should stop for breakfast," Dean grumbles as he shoves the last of his belongings into the small, black duffel he carries with him everywhere. The poor thing is this close to falling apart but until then he'll continue to use it.

Across the room, Sam rushes around like a hurricane, gathering things as fast as he can manage. "We're already late, Dean," he responds irritably.

"So what?"

Sam's eyebrows raise to comical heights. "So what? Dean, this ghost has already killed _two people_. If we don't get there in time, it could kill someone else, and that blood is on our hands."

"Actually, this ghost is the sentimental type, like the one that tied you down and made you sing Happy Birthday," Dean says with a little smile. "Two of this lady's husbands abandoned her, Sam, and so far she's taken two middle aged guys. I seriously doubt that she has killed them. They're probably hidden somewhere in her old house."

"Are you even listening to yourself?" Sam argues. "Those are innocent people. Dead or not, a ghost still took them and, if you don't mind, I'd like to be able to return them to their families unharmed. No one deserves to lose someone like that."

Dean pauses. "This is about Jessica, isn't it?"

"No," Sam insists. He flinches when Dean continues to stare at him. "Okay, maybe. Not directly though. I just - we both know how it feels to lose people to the supernatural. But at least we know the _truth_. These people...can you imagine living your whole life not knowing how your loved one died? It's just, I-" He cuts off, chest heaving and eyes brimming with tears that he's trying to hide.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, taking a step toward his little brother. "I get it."

Sam shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

"You know I get it," Dean replies as gently as he can, thankful that it is only the two of them here. He takes a deep breath, aware of what he is about to reveal. He's never dared to speak of it before. "I know what it's like to have someone torn away from you when there isn't anything you can do but watch. How you spend all of your time questioning yourself and what you could have done to save them. How you carry something of their's with you even though it's stupid, because it makes you feel a little closer to them. How you replay your last conversation over and over and wish more than anything that you could have forgiven them." Immediately Dean clamps his mouth shut.

Sam's shoulders are slumped. "But he came back, Dean."

"You think that made it any easier?" Dean asks, really wishing they weren't having this conversation. "I know you saw how I was the months after everything happened. He might have come back, but before I showed up on his doorstep, I thought he was dead."

Dean waits, not daring to breathe, expecting Sam to break out with the love guru crap. Instead, Sam just nods and says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that."

"It needed to be said," Dean counters, reaching up and patting Sam's shoulder. It's still surreal seeing his little brother standing several inches over him, bulky and brawny and ready to take on anything the world throws at him. But the more that Dean thinks about it, the more relieved he is that Sam grew up able to take a few hits. If he can't stay six years old, then he might as well be Hulk-ish. "I'm ready to head out. I don't know about you."

Sam's smile is genuine this time. "Is Cas coming with us?"

Dean shrugs. One second he had been cocooned in Castiel's arms and the next he'd woken up alone in his bed. Cas must've moved him there so he could be more comfortable before taking off.

"He's probably out on angelic errands or something," he mumbles, fishing the keys to the Impala from his pocket. "He'll catch up with us when he wants to."

Truth be told, Dean has no idea what Cas is out doing; but now that he knows the truth about the whole drilling thing, Dean is probably going to worry any time that Cas does angel stuff. Maybe it isn't angel business, exactly. Maybe Cas is off healing babies and stuff again. It's unlikely, but Dean latches onto it anyway, preferring it to the alternative.

"Hey, Sam, you wanna drive?" Dean offers.

Sam barely has time to nod before the keys are being flung in his direction. He catches them with practiced ease, throwing a half-hearted glare Dean's way. "Why do you want me to drive? Not that I'm complaining or anything, but-"

"I have to make a phone call." Dean studies the phone in his hands for a minute. "You know, Sam. I'm devoted to this business and I'm always gonna be here if you need me, but I don't see the problem with befriending a few people along the way."

Sam appears to deflate a little more. "You're talking about Benny, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Dean says, tensing. "I know you don't like him, Sam, but it really isn't your business who I choose to have as friends. I trust Benny. He saved my ass in Purgatory and I figure that I owe him my loyalty." The words come out firm, a little angrier than Dean would have preferred. He doesn't want to get worked up about stuff like this.

"Dean," Sam begins.

"No, I'm not done," Dean says forcefully. He turns his body until he's square with Sam. "I don't want to seem like an asshole, Sammy. I really don't. I just need you to understand that Benny is going to be my friend whether you like it or not." He sighs. "That is, if he'll let me apologize. I abandoned him at the eleventh hour."

Sam's eyes fill with guilt and he's nodding again. "I don't like Benny," he begins, and Dean is already preparing for yet another argument, "but I get what you're saying. If you trust him and want him in your life, then nothing else needs to be said." He hesitates, and Dean's heart sinks even lower. When Sam speaks again, his voice is quivering. "The reason I asked you to cut Benny out was because I was scared, Dean. After everything, after Jessica and Madison and Amelia...you're all I've got left and for some stupid reason I thought I was losing you to Benny."

Dean lets out a long breath as relief nearly knocks him over. "You never had a problem with Cas."

Barking a laugh, Sam says, "You never knew how it was between me and Cas when you weren't around, Dean."

"Cas visited you without me?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. He's more surprised than anything. While Cas and Sam get along, Dean never really saw them jumping at the chance to spend alone time with each other. The thought makes him shudder.

"Once or twice," Sam says, chuckling. "Mostly to drag me back to you."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, he has a bad habit of doing that." He ducks his head. "You sure you're okay with this?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He smiles, the effort strained and for a second Dean feels the need to fix everything, like old times. "Go call Benny."

With a last nod, Dean dials Benny's number and heads away from the car. Just as he's about to press the _call_ button, a thought occurs to him, and he looks over his shoulder at his brother. Sam's leaning forward against the driver's side of the Impala, fingers knotted over the top of the car. His face is dark.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean calls out.

Sam looks up and fixes his brother with a questioning look.

"Their blood isn't on our hands."

Sam's already opening his mouth to argue that point but Dean turns away before he can start. He didn't expect Sammy to believe him - after all, it took Dean a lifetime to figure it out for himself - but if nothing else the kid needs to hear it. Dean can't keep the monsters away from his brother any longer, can't protect him from the unknown, but this is one lesson he's determined to teach Sam. Until Sam learns it, he'll keep fighting away, shattering himself into fragments one day at a time until he loses himself in bloodlust and revenge. Until Sam learns it, he'll never find peace.

Dean keeps on walking until the Impala is a faded blur in the distance. Pushing _call_, he presses the phone to his ear and stares out over the expanse of the rolling hills in front of him. The sun, rising up past the peaks of the tallest hills, casts a golden hue over everything. For the first time in awhile, Dean can really appreciate the beauty of God's creation.

_"Hello?"_

"Hey, Benny."


End file.
